There exists a peculiar custom among golems. When they are young, only a hundred or so years old, a golem will find a fist-sized stone and carve into it a simple shape. They will then travel hundreds or even thousands of miles to find a place to leave it. This location is often isolated, far from the influence of any civilization, in the heartwood of the forest or deep within the plains. They will not bury it, or attempt to conceal it in any way.

The weatherbeaten shells of skyscrapers hunch angular and ruinous, a corporate elephant graveyard skyline. A haphazard menagerie of broken glass and rotting plasteel, reeking of gilt and hubris. Still shining beneath the grime.

It is always drizzling. Drops of dark rainbow-film float down with dreamlike vertigo, oil and light mixing with the glowstick blood of neon ivy. Phosphorescence runs down the acid-burned brickwork and drips off the twisted mandelbrot iron of feral fire escapes. Countless pools of dirty water cling to the architecture, crawling across ceilings and walls, transforming the alleyways into mirror-halls and kaleidoscopes. A wonka-tunnel of claustrophobia. Some illusions are portals leading to the decomposed realms of dead gods, keepers of noxious air and acidic rain, feeding on whatever falls through.